Children of the Open Air
by GOGHOTi
Summary: In the world before the Charter, a family is splintered. Revolution threatens the stability of the Belis Empire. Creatures of the wild places threaten man. In the darkness, nine will shine brighter than all else. Nine Bright Shiners
1. A Prologue: The Two Man Patrol

**Disclaimer**: The Old Kingdom Trilogy belongs to Garth Nix. The Nine Bright Shiners, certain place names that will be used in this story, and the Old Kingdom itself belong to him. I own but a few characters of my own creation.

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Night was the worst time, reflected Oliffer. With his sword, he hacked at the surrounding brush, though his movements seemed almost false. "Vernis? Vernis, I swear on the King's royal shit I will throttle you! This is a two-man patrol! You can't wander off, you ass-pated rat!" He smacked again, this time at a tree branch with half-hearted ire. He couldn't blame Vernis, really. The man was probably on his way back to the garrison, where there wasn't all this infernal wilderness. Fort Calys was in the middle of nowhere, and he had been on his way up through the ranks before this dead-end posting. Soldiers stationed at Fort Calys, for the most part, stayed at Fort Calys. They idled their time away between patrols, drinking themselves to death on cheap native wine, entangling themselves with the plain native girls, sleeping away the hours and dreaming of a place that seemed more like civilization and less like a cold, mountainous hell.

The forest, a previous dampener of all sound, rustled suddenly somewhere ahead of him. "Vernis? Vernis! Stop wasting time!" Oliffer charged on ahead, crashing through the undergrowth before stumbling, like a bewildered lamb, into a clearing. "Vernis?" he yelled again, and the darkness swallowed up his question. "Vernis?" Oliffer felt the hair on the back of his neck prick uneasily, and he took a reluctant step forward into the surrounding pitch. The ground felt solid, reassuring. Another step. He was fine. He could do this. "Vernis?" One step here, one step there―and then:

His foot caught on something. Oliffer emitted a soft groan: he was now aware that he had entered a timeless, almost comical situation. He felt his spirit leave him, and bent down to examine what he already knew was Vernis' body. His hands groped in the darkness with a blind surety―he had the bravery of a man suddenly intimate with his own mortality. He felt a hand, and then an arm, and then an oozing warmth. He lifted his own probing appendage, and smelled blood. "Vernis," he said simply, without compassion. Oliffer would have felt it strange that he wasn't frowning at the apparent death of his companion, but emotion seemed to strenuous at the moment. He stood up, grasping his sword in both hands, preparing to perform his people's ritual for the dead. "Vernis abh Joranth," he began in impromptu eulogy. His sword inched closer and closer to the body's already-torn neck―for some reason Oliffer could not summon an ounce of swiftness. He was moving inexorably slow in time, becoming a dead weight in its swirling current. Absently, he noted that his sword was catching a glimmer of light, though the moon and stars were invisible behind the clouds. It looked warm, a gentle and epicurean ochre glow. He adjusted the angle of his weapon, and in the reflection he saw behind him Vernis' end.

Oliffer turned slowly to meet his fate. "Crata," he named the creature. Every month a patrol or two was lost to these creatures of the wild places. They were by no means indigenous to the mountains―he remembered his childhood, his grandmother warning him not to play outside some evenings as Crata had been spotted on the outskirts of their small farming town. He blinked stoically at the thing. So far, it remained in its current form, a whorl of organic light, a faint outline that was ever shifting and yet perfectly still. He fancied that the creature was regarding him just as coolly, and they stayed like that for a few heartbeats, two civil individuals. Not even the tree branches swayed, not even the stag grass moved. The breeze, which had been blowing gently across his face mere moments before, had choked.

And then Oliffer felt the world change. The wind picked up fiercely, an angry gale descending from the north. Oliffer's hand lost its sensation, and his sword fell, noiseless, to the earth. The Crata glided, the light of its form taking on a pulsing, agitated red. Before he had felt his death and accepted it, but now Oliffer leapt to action, his heart assuming a frenzied pace, his pupils thinning to the merest of specks. Ancient wards and chants flung themselves through his mind, and at the same time he forget he was not a wielder of magic. "Erzen Crata venta du―" he began wildly, but the Crata exploded in size, and he was enveloped in a brilliant burst of red.

In the sky above, the moon finally emerged from its hiding place. That night it was the palest of whites, a gorgeous and unreal sliver hanging just above the tree line. The tips of the pines caught the light of the moon, and echoed back with a faint green. Though the hour was late, the first of the stars finally broke through the cloud cover. One by one, they rendered the pitchy sky into a serene pointillism. At Fort Calys, a few soldiers were still up. Marnet, playing dice by candlelight, looked up from his game to glance at the door. He wondered what Oliffer and Vernis were up to. An hour before, someone had made a joke, a raunchy suggestion about an illicit affair, and the soldiers who were still awake laughed heartily at that one. But that had been an hour ago, and even then Oliffer and Vernis were late. Marnet was friends with many of his fellows, but Oliffer and Vernis were from his own town. They stuck together. Just the week before, it had been he and Vernis that were the ones on the patrol, though he doubted they had given Oliffer any cause to worry about their whereabouts.

"Oi," grunted Marnet's playing partner, prodding him sharply. "Your turn, farmboy."

Marnet shook his head. It was probably nothing. Knowing Vernis, he had probably had a little liaison with one of the local girls, and Oliffer, ever the same, was fishing him out of trouble. Everything was fine. Marnet grinned. He couldn't wait to hear the stories those two would tell, once they got back. "Prepare to be slain," he shot back at his opponent. "And when I'm through with you, they'll dig your head up and collect your ashes just to laugh at you." He rolled the crude dice, cut from scraps of wood and marked with poorly-drawn symbols of festivity and defeat. Marnet released them, and they clattered to the table. "Aha! That's a crown and a fool! Pay up!"

As his fellow cursed and rummaged in his pockets, Marnet leaned over the table to close the window. He fastened the animal skin tightly over the port to keep the candle from guttering out, as the flame was currently spinning crazily, threatening to leap from the wick and onto the table. "Wind really picked up," he noted with annoyance. Outside, beyond the hide and in the sky above, the moon was once more shrouded by cloud cover. An enormous shadow fell over the mountain, and a crow, far from its usual southern haunts, shot into the darkness, cawing and reeling crazily.

On the earth below, Oliffer bled.

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**Author's Note**: I keep coming back! This is _at least_ the third version of my Shiners fic. Night Child (two years ago? one?) was a project that I began impulsively without planning. I loved the story and wanted to do it justice, but it got out of hand. I had gotten too far in it to make the changes that would have saved it from itself, so I ended it and removed it from the site. More importantly, I had then entered a period of my high school career that necessitated a lot of time studying and doing various things for college acceptance, and significantly less time writing my little-turned-behemoth fanfic. I know, I know, excuses excuses, but there you have it. As much as I loved Night Child, I think removing it was the best option. Best to give a swift and respectable death than drag it out, ruining it for myself and whoever was reading it.

On that note, welcome to Sam's Shiner Fic 3.0! This is an abrupt sort of prologue. I originally wanted to call it An Interruption, if only to let you guys know it was a very deliberate decision to make it so brief, but it wasn't interrupting anything. Logic ruins everything! Another prologue of sorts will be following it (I call it a prologue for the exposition), and it feels more like a real introduction to the story , more so than what this is. But I'm not just throwing this "prologue" out there. The events detailed in The Two-Man Patrol are relevant to the plot, and there is a teensy bit of exposition if you squint. More than anything, I guess, it is an immersion. I hope you like it enough to continue reading! And I've done a lot of planning and pre-writing on this baby, and I'm pretty much done with high school now (only AP exams, and then I'm home free!). I'll have plenty of time in the school year that remains, and then the whole summer to complete this story. I am NOT going to delete this. x3

To those who had been reading my previous fic, I apologize! DX I love you guys so much! I'm trying my best with this story (not to say I didn't try my best with the last one, but I'd like to think I improved in writing...) It should be a lot better than my last one, and definitely not as rambling.

Until next time!  
Sam ;3


	2. A Beginning: A Reaper in the Field

The harvesters bent in the marsh. The burning swamp was an inferno of primordial hues―caustic orange sky; billowing and sickly purple smoke gathering in frightening and evil shapes in the near horizon; trees silhouetted in a pitchy, raven-feather black. It was close to mid-morning, but in the swamp the only light came from the delicate ember-flowers and deep holes of flame. Still, the harvesters toiled on, ignorant of the smell their hair emitted as it burned quietly, ignorant of the pillars of fire that would erupt from the demon-pits periodically, ignorant of everything but the precious flowers. The ember-flowers glowed gentle yellow, so faint their light was almost white. The harvesters scavenged for these blooms as though possessed, grabbing them by their stalks in mad handfuls, ripping the flowers from the fiery earth. They acted in a collective. Not a soul bent for a flower out of time with her sisters, and none dared to take a break from their labor. This was partly out of pride, but mainly out of necessity: even to stand up and stretch the back, wipe the brow was to invite the fear, fear of fire and brimstone, the murky and ancient hell that was the burning swamps. The women toiled on, grasping at the ember-flowers for dear life.

Aester knew the lore well enough. As it was spoken, 'the fire fields do not a dance-ring make.' Still, she couldn't help the slight spring in her step, or the vigor in her actions (so devoid in the mechanical movements of the other harvesters) as she bent down and up, again and again in the harvest. Of course, in the back of her mind were all the horror stories of moon-minded maids who were lost to the fire fields, in their singed, smoked, charred glory. Presently, she was too happy to care.

But moon-minded as she was, Aester was of the stoic sort that was, beneath everything else, keenly intent on self-preservation. As much as she wanted to leave the harvest as soon as possible, she was careful to stay in the moment, lest she never leave at all. She had no intention of being one of the burned she-ghosts that were sometimes seen over demon pits. As benevolent as they were, she doubted they ever got the chance to consort with---and at this thought she blushed and almost set her foot down in a demon pit---boys. More importantly, boys of the garrison. Certainly, the elders of Durmmick bitterly "advised" against even talking to the Belis soldiers of Fort Calys. The soldiers were cruel masters, demanding a monthly quota of ember-flowers for their forges down south.

Cruel masters to the elders, that was. The generation that had been born under the guard-tower of Fort Calys found nothing wrong with the way things were. The garrison regularly held dances and parties, with goblets of sweet heronberry wine that Aester's aunt never let her drink. Durmish boys were regular boys of dun and tan coloring, with nut-brown hair that echoed in the trees and soil. In short, they were entirely of Aester's world, while the Belis soldiers were creatures fantastical and romantic in their uniforms, in their pale skins and bright eyes. More importantly, Belis soldiers never had to bother with stuffy Durmish traditions. Aester turned those thoughts over in her head, meager entertainment to most but a wealth of it to her, and continued her harvest.

At long last, the mid-morning bell was sounded, signaling that the harvesting for today was over. Aester yanked at one last clump of ember-flowers, and, stretching like a cat, reared skyward, her hands reaching far above her head. Her back ached from the day's harvest, as did her arms. It hurt even to drop the flowers into the collecting basket strapped to her back, but these were all pains she was used to. There was something to be said about the Durmish peasantry's hardiness and resilience; they were generally considered the most backwards and loutish denizens of the great Belis Empire, never as masterful or elegant as the Belis themselves, nor as enterprising or clever as the Corbits, not even as courageous and fierce as the rebellious Ratterlese. But they had endurance, and the Durmish were of the belief that they would outlast their oppressors---the world even. What troubled the Belis of Fort Calys was that the Durmish seemed to be right. Certainly, the soldiers of the garrison had swords, magic, fancy attack formations, and the musings of a thousand battle-philosophers on their side. But the biting and cold wind, the treacherous cliffs, even the burning swamp---the terrors of the mountains never seemed to hurt the Durmish. Certainly a high-bred Belis woman wouldn't last a day in the fire-swamps, but Aester and generations before her had toiled for years among the smoke and fire.

After relinquishing the fruits of her harvest, Aester left the fire fields with the other women. The harvest could not continue after mid-morning: as bitterly cold Durmmick was, the strength of the later-day sun made the burning swamp unbearable. Aester had been up before dawn working at the fields, and even then she had been lucid enough to have her mind wander to the garrison, but there was still much to do before she could have her fun. The crowd of women thinned as each took different paths to their lodges. Though Durmmick had been dedicated a town under the decree of the King, its natives lived much as they had before the occupation---and that was very, very far apart from one another. Aester diverted from what women remained to traipse lightly down a hillside. She followed a small path, indiscernible to all except those who knew what to look for. It took her past rounded tree stumps, stubborn purple bursts of heronberries, scraggly trees growing out of clumps of weeds. Here, away from the burning swamp, the sky was a cheery blue, and the mountain took on a kinder face.

There were no demon pits here, but though the natural world was smiling, there were still dangers of which to be wary. Shining ghosts (or Crata, her Belis schooling corrected her) wandered the hillsides. She had never seen one before, and had no intention now. Pulling her shawl tighter around her, Aester increased her pace, feeling (despite herself) eyes on her back.

In the meantime, the hem of her dress, already blackened with soot from the morning's work, grew heavy and damp as her trek through the tall and dew-flecked stag grass progressed. The grade of the path varied, sometimes going down, sometimes taking on such a sharp incline it would have necessitated a less-practiced person to cling to the stag-grass as they ascended. Yet navigating the mountains and hills was something that came easily to all Durmish, and in no time at all Aester crested a hill and found herself looking at her family's lodge.

The wooden building was perched on a bare face of gray rock, a bit too close to the edge of cliff for most other people's comfort, but it was fine for her family, though perhaps that was more a testament to how off they were compared to others. She barely remembered life in her father's lodge, back when he had been alive. She didn't even know where it was, and doubted it's existence at times. After the death of Aester's father, her mother had taken her to live with her older brother and sister. Tarn and Ila were good folk at heart. They prided themselves on being members of the elder's counsel---Tarn for whimsical, sentimental reasons, Ila for the very vigilant purpose of preserving the only way of life she knew.

When Aester's mother had taken up with a soldier of the garrison, they had very nearly kicked her out (Aester remembered bursting into tears when Auntie Ila suggested that she would be her new mother), but the birth of Ranna had so touched them they agreed to let the fallen woman stay. For that reason, Ranna was a charmed girl. She had fine Belis coloring, all winter sun, frozen water, and snow---none of the earthy and various shades of brown was Aester. But Aester bore no hard feelings against Ranna, at least no permanent ones. When Yarrel was born, third child to their poor mother (this time to a father she would never remember) Ranna felt her role being threatened. It was Asta who comforted her, and later, their brother. Ranna had reveled in her own uniqueness and beauty, but in terms of those traits, Yarrel, with his nearly white hair and summer-blue eyes, perhaps surpassed her. (It didn't hurt that Yarrel was completely oblivious to his own good looks, whereas Ranna worried the issue to death.) Yarrel and Ranna still bickered constantly, and Auntie Ila still screamed at them all.

She padded closer to the lodge, increasing her pace in anticipation of the meal that she was sure was waiting for her. She slowed deferentially at the grave of her mother, bowing her head to the vivid growth of yellow mountain flowers that blossomed over the mound, but then moved on as quickly (perhaps even quicker) than before. As she neared home, she could hear the voices of Ranna and Yarrel rising above the mountain wind. By the sound of Uncle Tarn's laughter, they were probably fighting over food yet again. Aester couldn't help but laugh too, as, right on time, Auntie Ila lent her loud and reedy voice to the mix. Aester burst through the doorway mid-scream, startling Ila into silence. They were all hunched over the fire pit, Yarrel in his customary squat, Ranna on her knees with her fists planted at her sides. They blinked at Aester for a few seconds, Yarrel and Ranna both sliding over to make room for their older sister, and then fell back into the argument.

"You got the marrow bone last time," Yarrel whined, his hands darting out for the small clay bowl that Ranna was holding. Sure enough, Aester could see the top of a bone floating in the thick gray mixture. Ignoring the tantalizing smell, she bent over the water trough by the door, rinsing the soot from her face.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," Ranna snapped back. "Honestly, I'm getting very tired of this. It doesn't matter who gets what. The marrow has probably fallen out of the bone anyway."

"You two---stop this immediately! Ranna, stop teasing your brother. You know you were looking for it, and you keep taking it just to spite him! Yarrel, you need to stop being so petty. It's only food, by the ghosts!" Auntie Ila flushed with the strength of expletive, but it went unnoticed by her bickering kin. She looked to her brother for support, but at that exact moment Tarn chose to busy himself with his own bowl of stew.

It always surprised Aester how unhappy her siblings made themselves. They were perhaps the two best-looking youths in all of Durmmick, a fact that didn't matter much regarding Yarrel's endeavors (he was 16, yet affected a studied disinterest in girls) but it was almost a matter of life and death to Aester whenever Ranna elected to accompany her to the garrison or to town proper. Nor did her siblings have to work, she added, more than a bit bitterly as she scrubbed. Still, she supposed having sooty hands was better than playing a common whore to the more base soldiers of the garrison. Or having to sit around all day listening to Ila, Yarrel, and Ranna fight.

At that thought she glanced over to Uncle Tarn, who, despite the fact that both his legs had recently been severed at the knee, seemed to be coping well. Uncle Tarn used to provide for their family as the care-taker of Fort Calys' bell tower, but he couldn't climb the stairs anymore, let alone walk. They had been crushed one night as he was making his way home---he was one of the few to have a run-in with a shining ghost and live to tell the tale. Mainly, Aester was glad her uncle was still alive, but she wished something could have been done about his legs. At 18 years old, she was the youngest girl working in the fire fields. Most of her peers, like Ranna, spent their day engrossed in more carefree past times.

"You've got the soot off," said Ranna, breaking Aester's reverie. "You're hurting yourself," she added quietly, getting up from her place at the hearth to stand by her sister, grabbing her hand and bringing it up to what little light filtered in. "Stop scrubbing."

Aester blinked. She had lost track of herself, and now her hands were red. Ranna had a way about her that made it impossible to ever stay mad at her for long. As self-centered she could be at times, Ranna had the odd habit of knowing just when to show how much she truly cared. Ranna lowered Aester's hands back into the cool water once, and then lead her to the hearth. "We don't have much time to eat. Today is a reading," she explained, guiding Aester to sit down next to her.

Yarrel, like a little bird, hopped closer to his older sister, offering the same bowl he and Ranna had just fought over. "Here, you can have my stew. It has a marrow bone in it," he smiled, ignoring the look that Ranna and Auntie Ila shot him. Uncle Tarn chuckled again, and the family fell into silence as they absorbed themselves in their meal. It made her feel strange, whenever this sort of thing happened. Just when she found ample reason to despise them, whenever she found the grounds to be bitter, her family always managed to be the most kindest, most understanding, most loving---Aester smiled into her stew (there hadn't been marrow after all)---it was impossible to ever harbor hard feelings against them. Dimly, Aester was aware that much of her youth was being robbed just to support them. She knew harvesting in the fire fields was a job Auntie Ila could easily take, just as she knew Ranna could take up sewing, or Yarrel could work in stables at the fort. But it was a murky sort of awareness, one that rose to the surface of Aester's mind at times, but was largely ignored. There was a simple comfort to be found in knowing one's place, no matter how low.

When the meal was over, they wiped their hands on their laps and, as usual, waited for Uncle Tarn to speak.

"I expect you two want to go to the garrison tonight?" he said finally, after clearing his beard of errant food. Auntie Ila, with a long-suffering sigh, rolled her eyes, and left the fire-pit to wash their bowls in the water trough. Yarrel jumped up and followed suit.

"Yes! Lera from the south slope said they're throwing a great ball in honor of the Crown Prince!" Ranna's eyes shone, and though Aester had heard differently about the nature of the night's festivities, she remained silent, allowing Ranna her pleasure. "I don't think he'll be here, though," Ranna added hastily, feeling Auntie Ila's vitriolic glare on her back.

Uncle Tarn's eyes twinkled as he regarded his nieces. "I'm sure he'll come next year," he replied loudly, if only to tease his sister. It was common knowledge that Ila hated anything that had to do with the Belis. A loud crash came from the water trough as she dropped one of the bowls. Aester turned to see Yarrel, one hand over his mouth and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, picking up the pieces while the door-flap swung heavily as Ila made her exit. "I wonder what's bothering her," Uncle Tarn mused.

"May we go?" Aester prodded, trying to reel the conversation back on topic before they had to leave for the reading. Once a month, the ladies in the town (really just a small cluster of Belis manses by the garrison) held a sort of intervention for their poor heathen neighbors. Roll would be called, passages from important Belis philosophers would be read, and everyone's time would be wasted, but at least the fine ladies could feel philanthropic in between their self-indulgences. Aester dreaded it simply because she was required to put on "acceptable" clothes of Belis fashion, and those were far too thin and cold for the mountains.

"Would I ever say no?" asked Uncle Tarn, taking his nieces by their hands. "Now remember―"

Ranna cut him off, rolling her eyes much like her aunt did. "I know, I know. Stay safe, don't do anything risky―"

Uncle Tarn pinched her nose, as he used to do when they were children. "I was just going to say, have fun. Your brother here will protect me from your aunt, won't you, Yarrel?"

Yarrel looked up from the corner, where he had been absorbed in piecing the bowl back together. At Uncle Tarn's comment, he snorted in amusement. "Not even the ghosts could protect you from her, Uncle."

There wasn't much time for discussion after that. Auntie Ila eventually came back inside from her self-imposed exile, and the four of them that were going into town (Uncle Tarn was excused from readings nowadays) cleaned themselves up for presentation. After helping Yarrel fasten the collar on his tunic, and Ranna pin her hair up, Aester struggled into the thin Belis leggings and converted drapery that the town ladies had donated. She always felt foolish wearing her town clothes―the "dress" was so horridly out of shape that she looked like a sack of stones, and the colors, dull gray for the leggings and a yellowish off-white for the dress, looked, in all honesty, ugly. Ranna fared a little better, since she was so pretty she could look good in anything, and Yarrel fared the best, since his town clothes were gifts from his friends in the garrison. As they trooped out the lodge, Aester couldn't help but observe that they were two Durmish clowns following two Belis swans. She laughed, prompting a glare from Auntie Ila.

"What are you laughing at?" she snapped, understandably more than a little agitated about having to sit at the feet of her oppressors.

The quickest way into town was down the cliff. A path was carved into the rock face, and it was by that the family traveled, their hands linked even though they were confident in the surety of their own feet. At the base they joined the throng of other families, their hands still clasping one anothers. Honey-and-gold stag grass and deep green pine thinned into great houses and cobblestone, and the entire Durmish population of Durmmick threaded its way through the streets to the town hall. With Auntie Ila at their helm, the four of them pushed their way inside, and made themselves comfortable on the stone floor. They always sat at the back, as far away from the speaking platform as they could manage, though recently Aester had begun to wish they sat closer to the front. The soldiers of the garrison were required to be present for the readings, and her new 'acquaintance' would be here today. She knew she would most likely see him at the dance tonight, but that knowledge alone did not quell her youthful need, not at all.

"Stop fidgeting, girl," Auntie Ila snapped, and Aester realized she had been craning to see him.

"We're just looking for Lera and Aderin," piped Ranna, slipping an easy alibi to her sister. Aester hadn't told her about the soldier; the siblings tended to defend each other on instinct.

"Do you mind if we sit closer to the front?" Yarrel asked. Aester had told him, simply because Yarrel was a friend to many at the garrison, but her particular soldier wasn't one that Yarrel knew. He had posed the question mainly to satisfy his own curiosity. That it would make his sister happy was a bonus.

Ila shook her head in disgust, as is she couldn't believe anyone would want to sit closer to the front. "If you must." She shooed them away, and then fell into conversation with a severe-looking old man sitting next to her.

The three of them squeezed their way to the front of the hall, sitting as close as they dared to the soldiers. "Any reason why you wanted to sit here today?" Yarrel teased, fully aware of the answer. Ranna, however, honestly wanted to know.

"Don't think I'm complaining, but is there any reason?" She was curious, but already her eyes were starting to wander appreciatively to the soldiers. Her attention wouldn't hold for long.

Aester hit Yarrel lightly, giving him a disapproving look. Her soldier was something she wanted to keep to herself, for she harbored the fear that if he were to ever meet Ranna… Aester cleared her throat, ignoring their questions. "If Auntie Ila decides to join us, tell her I went off to sit with Aderin," she ordered with a tentative vein of finality that didn't quite pass pleading. She then pushed her way yet again through the masses, honing in on a target that was decidedly not Aderin. Yarrel, a big foolish grin on his face, watched her as she left, and then turned to Ranna to for a conspiratorial whisper.

Their conversation, whatever it detailed, was lost to Aester. The crowd pressed in on her, but any claustrophobia she might have felt was squashed by zeal. It seemed to take forever, as if she were moving through pine sap, to get to the soldier. Then, abruptly, Aester came to a full stop at a figure seated in the fringes of the soldiers' section. "Hello," she said, a bit breathlessly. Her new seatmate started, broken from a daydream, and was halfway into a salute before he realized who it was.

"Hello yourself," Orsen replied, assuming his original position, his arms folded over his knees. He shot her a sideways, mockingly accusatory look, mouth quirked into lop-sided smile. Around them, the other soldiers turned to stare, most of them amused at their brother-in-arm's new friend, only a few honestly annoyed at Aester's intrustion. "Fancy seeing you here."

He was being maddeningly mundane, and Aester felt her smile grow despite herself. She had never fancied anyone before, and Orsen, with his dark eyes and thick black hair, was as good a first fancy as any. It was masochistic of her, but she enjoyed the way he played everything down, if only because she felt it was a veneer for something more. "Will you be going to the dance tonight?" she asked, not caring how she was presenting herself, nor even aware of her over-eager folly.

If anything, he seemed to find her frankness amusing, but hid his own smile before she could see it, and assumed a serious expression. "Why? Is anyone important coming?"

A rotund Belis woman, swathed in lace and light green, began to take roll. All Durmish were registered under their Belis name, and some of the older folk still had trouble remembering that, in the eyes of the Belis, they were not Hurn, a simple son of Ulin, but Hurneth abh Uliel. The old man in question, after several repetitions of his name, finally (albeit cantankerously) offered the standard reply, "I await instruction." The roll resumed.

Aester laughed, though quietly so as not to elicit any more stares. They both knew he wouldn't be going anywhere else―soldiers could not leave the garrison unless under orders―but she played along nevertheless. "I'll be going," she offered, struggling to keep the untested expectancy out of her voice with great difficulty and limited success.

He pretended to consider, which, little did Aester know, was difficult for him as well. No one's feelings (be it his, whatever they were, or anyone else's) could ever be strong enough to withstand the infectious light and charm of a young girl with hope. "Well, in that case," he began, but was cut-off by the woman's call.

"Orsen abh Gweth?"

Orsen seemed annoyed at this interruption, an observation that made Aester's stomach do all sorts of things stomachs did not normally do, but he lifted his head for the customary reply. "I await your instruction," he shouted back, and then turned back to her. "In that case," he continued, "I guess I have no choice but to go." He smiled briefly, the first real one since she sat next to him. He wasn't perfection, but it didn't matter if his mouth was a bit too wide, or his brow-ridge a bit on the heavy side: he had the handsomest smile she had ever seen. She smiled back at him, and, as a reply (to say the least) it sufficed.

"Ila abh Tarn?"

"I await your instruction," given somewhat stiffly.

"Raniel abh Edreth?"

"I await your instruction," Ranna replied in a light, pleasing lilt.

"Yrael abh Girith?"

"I await your instruction," said Yarrel with the cracked voice of adolescence.

Orsen continued to smile at her, though it shifted back again into one of amusement rather than one of earnest. "Nothing to say?" he prompted, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

Her tongue was still lost somewhere, and she had somehow forgotten how to work her mouth.

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

Orsen laughed a little, nudging her with his elbow. "Come on. That's you."

"Astarael abh Ambrus?"

He nudged her again, softer this time, and her jaw remembered its place. "I await…"

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**Author's Note**: The real prologue! Woot! Definitely a different feel than what I had with Night Child. In that fic, I introduced the POV character as Astarael right off the bat, but the pre-Charter world of this story (in my opinion) is better developed. I wanted a greater disparity between the different cultures of what will become the Old Kingdom (eventually I will get to how the kingdom becomes the more culturally homogeneous society we see in the books), and so have included the different naming systems of the Durmish and Belis peoples (yes, I kept the Belis from Night Child...x3). I think it works better this way---by seeing her first as Aester (Which should be viewed as the Durmish equivalent to our "Esther." The pronunciation is about the same.), this hopefully makes Astarael more accessible as a person, rather than the figure of myth that she is in the books. But whatever! As I had it in Night Child, yes, Astarael, Ranna, and Yrael are siblings. Unlike Night Child, however, I wanted a better family dynamic. One of the major problems with Night Child was that I tended to present Yrael and Ranna as very flat, unappealing characters (to be honest, I tended to present most of the characters that way... x___x). Hopefully I will rectify that here, because I love me some Ranna and Yrael! Also, everyone is aged up from Night Child. This may be because I am writing this story as an older person, but I'd like to think it is because 11 year-olds (in the case of Yrael) don't really have the capacity to be running around killing people... Astarael is 18, Ranna is 17, and Yrael is 16 (tee hee, I just realized Ranna is my age. x3).

I realize this installment isn't the most terribly exciting, but the action picks up next chapter, I swear! This was more exposition than anything else. I spent a lot of time agonizing over whether to cut this down, and rewrote it twice, but eventually stuck with this original version. I think the relationship dynamics presented here, along with the introduction/development of the setting, and the introduction/development of the world are too vital to be cut, especially after a sort of drive-by-shooting immersion chapter like The Two-Man Patrol. I guess what I'm trying to say is, if this chapter wasn't your high fantasy cup of tea, the rest of the story isn't really going to be like this. As much as I love innocuous little slice-of-life pieces like this is, there is going to be way more action in the near future.

Well, I guess if you read it, please review? :3

Until next time!  
Sam ;3


	3. Chapter 1: The Golden Path

Aester's teeth chattered as she set about relieving her town clothes for a more durable, native set. She tried to dress quickly, but for a brief hiccup in time the cold air bit at her. It raised gooseflesh and sowed involuntary shudders, tracing intangible fingers up and down her spine. Night was always cold on the mountain, Aester reflected, watching her smoky breath fan out in the space in front of her, but that did not make it any less miserable. Close by, Ranna was also preparing herself for the garrison dance, weaving festively-colored scraps of cloth into her hair, albeit poorly. "Let me help you," laughed Aester, and the two sisters chattered amiably about the night ahead.

When each felt presentable, they stepped back to view each other. Mirrors were unheard of in Durmmick; here, young women relied on each other for the petty evaluations they normally inflicted on themselves. Looking at Ranna, Aester saw a beautiful girl, golden hair interwoven with charming threads of purple and red. Aester had put on her best dress, simple save for embroidery at the hem, but she had the sinking feeling that the girl Ranna saw was nowhere near as captivating. "Will you be staying with me?" Aester asked, tentatively gauging the situation. Orsen, prize as he was to her, seemed like a bird that had alighted on her hand---her time with him was a freak occurrence, and surely he would leave her for some prettier blossom. Aester peered at Ranna again, looking for some sort of imperfection or impurity. Finding nothing, she supposed she should expect news of their clandestine relationship soon. She loved Ranna, this much was true, but she had always felt a hollowness when she compared herself to the younger girl. It didn't hurt, knowing she was plain in comparison. It was a sort of rawness that was dealt with stoically and silently.

Ranna smiled happily back at her, a twinkle in her eye betraying the knowledge she had of Aester's situation. Yarrel had told her what he knew during the reading, and Ranna took a particular interest in the situation at hand. This was perhaps the first time Aester had presented herself as well-rounded---an actual girl, with actual, rascally feelings for not just any boys but (spirits forbid) soldiers of the garrison. The commonness and triviality of it all delighted Ranna. More exciting than experiencing the youthful zeal of a fledgling relationship was watching one's resolute older sister experience it---for the first time. "We see enough of each other as it is. I hope you won't mind going off on my own?" In truth, Ranna was not aware of her older sister's thunderous insecurities: rather, she alluded to her sister's interest in a certain soldier.

But Aester guessed the former, and nodded, trying her best to hide her relief. "I don't mind. But we should leave now if we ever want to go at all." With that, the pair tiptoed past the sleeping forms of their aunt and uncle (Ila and Tarn, though aware of their nieces' intent, trusted them enough to take care of themselves and had elected to go to bed after the reading), and what seemed like the sleeping form of Yarrel. Aester almost bumped into Ranna as the younger girl stopped abruptly, turning on her heels as though she had been bodily spun.

"Don't forget! Auntie Ila wants you to pick up her herbs from the garrison's apothecaire," Ranna said urgently. Auntie Ila was serious about her hatred of the Belis, but was even more serious about her amateur forays into herbwifery. It was for that sole reason she struck up a reluctant friendship with the Belis apothecaire. He was a bitter old man (the basis of his friendship with their aunt?), especially upset at being stationed at Fort Calys. That elderly, frail thing treated all wounds below the attention of the Royal Healers, who themselves used magic to heal more demanding injuries. Unbidden, the insignia of the Royal Healers (a red willow tree on a shield of white) came to Aester's mind, and she remembered with perfect clarity how dashing it looked on a particular member of the Calys guard.

"Yes, of course," replied Aester in a whisper. On their way home from the reading, Auntie Ila had chattered incessantly about the herbs she was expecting, and harped forever about how disappointed she would be if she didn't have them as soon as possible. Their aunt had never explicitly stated that she wanted the herbs to be picked up, but Aester and Ranna had lived with Ila long enough to guess what the woman truly meant behind her words.

"All right then. Off we go!" smiled Ranna excitedly, her condensed breath shooting from her mouth like fire. For a brief second, Aester was held captivated―even in the darkness, Ranna shone as some brazen she-demon of gold and sun that, for some altruistic and stupid reason, decided to be with her, Aester. Ranna held the look, and Aester felt herself grow a tired. "Are you yawning?" Ranna asked, suddenly indignant, breaking whatever has happening to Aester.

Hiding her yawn, Aester bent over the sleeping form of Yarrel. "One moment," she murmured, reaching out to rest her hand on the boy's forehead. "We have to say good night."

Ranna rolled her eyes, for the second time that day looking uncannily like their aunt. "You baby him too much, Aester," she frowned. "If you aren't careful, he'll turn out weak." Among the Durmish, this was a serious accusation. It meant long hungry winters and begging the Belis for food, crying children and defeated providers.

This roused Aester enough to shoot back a heated retort, but another reply came from the opposite corner of the lodge before she could defend her brother.

"Yeah, I might turn out weak!"

"Yarrel?" Aester blurted incredulously, withdrawing her hand from whatever it was she had been touching, quick as lightning. "You're awake? Then---then what is this?" She struggled to keep her voice down, lest she wake their aunt and uncle from their separate pallets, but her wild gesturing at the blanketed lump more than made up for her relative quiet.

Yarrel laughed, and the sisters could just make out his form ambling toward them in the darkness. "I've been saving bones from our meals! The bowl that Auntie Ila cracked makes a great head, doesn't it?" He reached them, and bent between them to fling the covers off his sleeping facsimile. It was merely a pile of bones, with broken crockery at their apex. Yarrel grinned cheekily up at his sisters, and all three of them could not help but laugh at his stupid, yet ingenious creation.

"I take it you want to come with us to the dance?" teased Ranna after their fit of mirth eased. "Someone there you want to see?"

Yarrel shook his head gravely, throwing the blanket once more over his creation. "No, but all my friends have had heronberry wine. I was thinking I would just slip in for a goblet, and then come straight home." He turned to Aester pleadingly, and repeated himself, "Straight home. Please?" Yarrel's mouth assumed a cat-like grin she did not quite trust.

Aester's expression turned hard. "There's a reason Auntie Ila doesn't want you doing that," she said, folding her arms across her chest, as if to protect herself from his daring suggestions. "I've seen it before. Menfolk have a harder time stopping their drink. You don't want to end up like old Irvis, do you?" Irvis was the closest thing Durmmick had to a town drunk. He wasn't a wastrel, and normally kept himself in good conduct, but the siblings could name more than a few times Irvis had brought shame to his family.

Yarrel shook his head again, though with a chuckle as he remembered Irvis' ass-pated behavior. "Just one goblet, Aester, I swear," he begged, turning to Ranna for help. Over his shoulder, Ranna shot the oldest sibling a beseeching look.

"Fine," Aester relented, leaving the sleeping pallets for the door-flap. "Just one drink. But I don't want you wandering off for home by yourself. You'll have to wait for us."

Yarrel seemed to have expected this, ducking his head to hide a triumphant grin.

The three of them emerged from their lodge, finely dressed creatures into the open night. Unlike their excursion to the reading, they were all swans now. Aester had been right in that she didn't shine as brightly as Ranna did, and Yarrel, as always, cut a fine figure. But what Ranna had assumed her sister already knew, that though Aester lacked sheer and captivating beauty, she made up for it with a respectable sort of handsomeness, a stately mien that was attractive for what it was. She had none of her siblings' high cheekbones and patrician angles; she was sturdy and strong, earthy and fecund, and led their little troop as though she would forever belong at their head. With Aester at the lead, the three could traverse the dark forests, plunge down the bare hillsides, ignore the ghouls and frights of unnamed shadows. It was entirely subconscious, the calm she projected, but was exuded with such a tenacity that the feeling clung to her like a miasma.

Though the moon that night was strong, they were unwilling to test its veracity on the cliff by their lodge. It was the quickest way to town but they opted for the forest, where they expected less of a chance of falling to their deaths. They were still in the forest when they heard a tree branch snap in the darkness far overhead. Ranna leapt, and clutched Aester's arm for support. "What was that?" she whispered, trying her best to keep her eyes from darting wildly---she was afraid of what she might see. A leaf fluttered down from the canopy, and Ranna stifled a scream.

Ranna wasn't a coward. She, as did they all, had every reason to be afraid of bumps in the night. Despite the Belis' king's offerings of protection, Crata stalked every corner of his great kingdom. The Crata were vicious, and this was something all Durmish knew. The Crata were forever hungry, and this was something all Durmish reminded themselves when they were alone. The Crata were tricky, bloodthirsty shape-shifters. They would come and go, creating mischief for the herders in the form of mutilated goats. They were baby-stealers, child-killers, the unseen presence that made young women close their legs and pray for plainness. The sinister lover's touch in the dark that made boys and men jump and wish for the safety of their mother. The Crata were a very real danger, and the Durmish had spent generations on perfecting the art of staying out of their way. But when the Belis came to the mountain, all that effort had been destroyed. The Belis drew the Crata to them like a beacon, and the Durmish were caught in between. This was one of the reasons why the garrison's parties were so hated by the elders. They alone had the gall to suggest that merrymaking had its consequences. The three siblings were reminded of this now, and moved together like one being, forming a circle with their backs toward each other.

Aester took Yarrel and Ranna's hands into her own. "We're going to walk just like this," she said, firmly and easily. Between the three of them, she was perhaps the best at this---blatantly ignoring the fear of death. None of them had ever truly had cause to practice; the Crata had, until then, been a problem that other people suffered. But Aester found herself to be so good at this, it was almost as though her falsehoods were real. She felt fine, and so squeezed her siblings' hands tighter, if only to transfer her that assurance.

As they were, Yarrel was positioned so that he was looking at the path behind them. He was a hearty boy, full of everything that a 16 year-old youth should be full of, and so it was only natural for him to balk. "I-I don't think I can," he whispered, clutching his older sister's hand as though it was the only solid thing left in the world. Another sharp crack burst down from treetops, and leaves rained down on them like hailstones greedy for the ground. Yarrel let out a desperate noise, a half-sob tinged with premeditated regret, and made to bolt from their circle.

Ranna and Aester held him fast. Worse than confronting Crata with your siblings was confronting Crata alone. If they had let Yarrel go, he would be as good as dead in the dark and the silence. Ranna held onto him reluctantly, entertaining the thoughts of running all the while she prevented him from doing so. Crata drove people mad, that was common knowledge. But hearing elders speak of confrontations with the Crata was vastly different than being in the situation itself. Yes, the three had listened to the stories, and convinced themselves they knew what to do if they ever met a Crata. But simply telling oneself not to touch fire is a meager defense when the golden, dangerous flames are presented for the first time. Something about the Crata made people want to die.

Aester held onto her brother as though his manic behavior were merely an inconvenience. Half of her charade was out of necessity---one of them had to stay "strong," whatever that meant. But the other half was, again, almost real. She felt an odd certainty that now was not their time to pass on. She looked over her shoulder at the path in front of them. They were almost out of the woods. A few more steps and they would be in the fields of stag grass, and beyond the fields, the garrison. Fort Calys was an indeterminate blob of light, but a happy one all the same. "Look, Yarrel. I think we're almost at Farmer Jerith's field. Remember when you said his bread tasted horrible? His son didn't talk to you for a week."

Mouth agape, Yarrel allowed himself to be moved into the forward position. Now Aester was watching their rear. She understood what had nearly unmade her brother: the blackness of the deep woods behind them was pure emptiness, an emptiness that begged to be filled. A Crata, she was well aware, would be more than compliant to fill that emptiness. Faced with it now, it wasn't difficult for her to imagine a horde of them swooping out from behind the trees. Nevertheless, she blinked stoically at the darkness, challenging it to make a move. Another tree branch snapped, but this time no leaves fell.

"Yarrel, we're almost there!" cried Ranna desperately, and this shifted their brother into action. Hands still linked, though now with Ranna and Yarrel straining at the lead, they moved forward. They didn't dare to move faster than a crawl---they were afraid any swiftness would bring the Crata down on them faster, and also didn't quite have the heart to be so brash in the face of danger. The light that was Fort Calys inched closer and closer, until the fields were right at their toes. They seemed to be in the clear.

Yarrel was the first to step out from the woods. The moment his foot entered that world of soft moonlight and callow stag grass, his fear left him. Beneath the trees and the fear, he had walked with his back hunched and his eyes fearful. Now free, his face lit up into a smile, something that Aester could feel though her back was still turned to him. Though his happiness was pervasive, she did not cease glaring at the dark forest behind them. It still seemed to return the challenge, but only cursorily. She and it both knew it had been defeated. She let go of Yarrel's hands, and, startled, Ranna did the same.

Joyously, Yarrel broke free from the circle, though this time Aester and Ranna allowed him. He whooped and jumped in the tall, unharvested stag grass. His commotion drew Aester away from her vigil, and she and Ranna watched his antics. Ranna smiled in relief at her sister, holding her close.

"That was eventful," said Aester finally, and Ranna laughed. "I guess we should hurry up if we want to reach Calys at all."

At this, they resumed their pace, though Aester brought up the back. She wasn't one to reflect much, though it would have been helpful now. Had she paused to think about what had just happened to them, she would have realized that their escape, as it was, was too easy. She would have understood that it hadn't been an escape at all. Crata were clever, Crata were sneaky. There was a lifetime of childhood rhymes devoted to the subject, and Aester remembered all of them. Just not now. Instead, she watched Ranna's lithe form crush the stag grass in front of, and appreciated the starlight above her. Instead of remembering and understanding, she listened to Yarrel's shouts of happiness, and began to laugh along.

The sound choked in her throat as something grabbed her waist and whipped her back. Aester didn't have time to make any noise, but the sudden absence of her sister's footsteps made Ranna falter and look back.

***

"Aester?" she called. Ranna was still smiling, but it was a shaky, searching smile, one entirely dependent on the presence of her sister. But Aester was nowhere to be seen. "Aester?" she called again, but it came out as an urgent whisper. Unlike before, Ranna was no longer operating under fear, but blind despair. It had never occurred to her that Aester was anything less than permanent and infallible. The thought that her sister was taken shook her to the core. "Aester!" Going against everything she had learned about the Crata, Ranna backtracked, crashing through the stag grass, hands flying out in front of her like swords until―

Aester's strong arms came forward and brought her to a halt. "Sssh," hissed Aester, bringing one finger up to her mouth. Over her shoulder, a Crata pulsed in its natural form. For a second, Ranna was entranced by the swirling light. The Crata had a vicious and raw type of beauty, one that evoked a need in her gut and burned itself onto her eyes. "I want you to back away slowly," said Aester, taking hold of Ranna's chin and making it so their eyes met. "And then I want you to join Yarrel and keep moving."

The Crata, though it had no eyes, or any sort of logic to its amorphous form, seemed to observe them with detached interest. Ranna felt her mouth go dry. "You can't be serious," she said at last, pleadingly. "Aester, don't be stupid."

Aester and the Crata looked at Ranna with a timeless sort of impassivity, though Aester blinked while the Crata continued its mocking, pulsating glow. All three of them knew that Aester was not being stupid: the Crata had grabbed her, and she had been chosen. Nobody knew why Crata did anything, but the Durmish knew better than to question the impartial fate the creatures doled out. In her heart of hearts, Ranna supposed this was the end for her sister. Perhaps one day, the Crata would come for her too. But the monster had made a deliberate choice, and the fact that it was not rushing at them both made everything all the more painfully obvious. Ranna felt herself tearing up at the injustice of Aester's final fate.

"Please," she said, one last rally. "Please let me stay with you." And it was a sincere request, honest. Ranna, most beautiful girl in all of Durmmick, who had her choice of any boy if she wanted. Ranna, in the dawn of life. A girl with so much promise, and she would have willingly ended her existence then and there. Just to be with her sister. And this was precisely why Aester shook her head.

***

"No," she replied. But Ranna's emotions melted her indomitable defense, and she added (against her better judgment), "I love you far too much for that."

The Crata shuddered, and began to assume a different form. Aester pushed her sister away so that she was holding her at arm's length, a new sense of urgency staining her actions. "Go now. Enjoy the party. You'll have to wait a while before…" Here she paused, unsure of how to tactfully handle her own demise. "Before this path is clear again."

Ranna nodded fearfully, and with a push from Aester, turned around and bolted between the yellow stalks.

"And don't tell Yarrel, not yet!" Aester called after her. "Let him enjoy himself…" She trailed off, watching the tops of the stag grass rustle as Ranna left. Behind her, the Crata moaned as it grew itself a throat, and then roared as it developed further. Aester closed her eyes, and tried to focus on the sound of her own breathing. This was perfectly naturally, she told herself. She wasn't the first to have been snatched, and she certainly wasn't the last. No one knew what the Crata did with their victims, but once snatched, always gone. Natural---after life came death, always death.

Yet, there was still a sliver of disbelief in the back of her head, an incredulity that such a misfortune could ever happen to her. She was a good girl, wasn't she? Supported her family, loved her siblings, liked a boy. She had done everything right---she smiled and laughed, could dance passably well, always brought in a good harvest. She had healthy appetites and normal passions, was pretty enough and not dull, was brave and true and---at last Aester felt the tears well up behind her eyes. She knew they wouldn't fall; she was never one to cry. But the fact that they were there finally broke her. She couldn't accept this. She didn't want to die.

A hot anger ignited deep within her, born out of rejection to her new lot. She whirled around to face her assailant, and barely flinched at the Crata's new form. The Crata had seemed to feed off her emotions, and was now a melancholic mess of twitching limbs. The thing did not have any eyes, just fingers where they should have been. A single mouth grinned maliciously at her from between two sets of legs, and emitted a hoary wheeze. The thing took a step toward her, but Aester held her ground. Another step. Still, she stayed.

It moved slowly toward her, and she bent cautiously. She hadn't noticed the rock by her foot until now, and though she understood it wouldn't do her any good---could rocks even touch a Crata?---she was acting more out of desperation than logic, and both she and the thing knew it. It regarded her calmly as she hefted it above her head, and then resumed its slow stalk.

"Stay back," she threatened ineffectually. The thing ignored her, and she gagged out of horror as the excess limbs waggled greedily at her. She waved the rock above her head, and tried her best to stay brave.

The Crata gurgled incoherently at her, a mere hairsbreadth away from her face now. Six of its arms reached to caress her face, and Aester felt the rage boil into a powerless disgust. The fingers passed over her eyelids softly (a lover's lips, a final goodbye?). They made out the shape of her nose, probed the space between her lips, rubbed her teeth until they were dry, cupped her chin and cheekbones and jaw line. All the while the thing continued to grin and gurgle, and though Aester knew better, she couldn't help but wonder if it was mocking her.

This final injustice did her in. She didn't even scream, barely made a noise. Instead, it was the rock that whistled through the night air, a vengeful angel in the defense of its master. The rock looked positively barbaric in the half-light of the moon. She hadn't realized it had been so wickedly pointed, or that she had been holding it sharp end down. She observed all these details now and they registered at the back of her mind, but Aester didn't connect them. Somehow, she brought the rock down on precisely the right spot on the Crata's body, past the tangled mass of limbs right where its head should have been. It screeched, squirting her with blue blood as the rock forced its mouth cavity in, and fell to her feet in a writhing heap. Impassively, she watched it is it convulsed in its death-throes, flicking weakly from monstrous shape to monstrous shape.

Finally, she realized what she had done, and felt more afraid than when she had actually been in danger. It seemed grossly out of the natural order, her killing. This was a deer slaying a wolf, a fly eating a frog. Panting, she took a step back from the dying Crata, almost apologetically. No one would believe her. She barely believed herself. Killing a Crata---that was unthinkable. The things didn't, couldn't die. One could kill a Crata just as much as one could kill a mountain. And yet here she was. Here it was. Aester half-thought the world was about to end.

But it didn't, and now she felt giddy. A heady rush of power---as though she had taken an enormous swig of heronberry wine---went to her head. She felt dizzy, invincible. Dizzily invincible. Invincibly dizzy. She took one more step back, and then another. Aester turned on her heels like a dancer, feeling as though she had more than enough reason to celebrate at Fort Calys now. She wouldn't tell anyone, she resolved, but would keep it a secret. Her victory tonight was something she would treasure forever and―

Her victory was premature. The Crata could hardly believe its defeat itself, and that had made it wicked. It reverted back to its original, glowing form, though it was vaguely man-shaped now. One shining arm flew out to grab Aester's ankle, twisting cruelly as it dragged her down. Her mouth clamped shut to prevent herself from screaming (it was irrational, but she was adamant not to give it the pleasure of hearing her scream), and her nails dug into the soil as it began to pull toward it. She couldn't tell if it was dying anymore: it was glowing brighter than ever, outshining the stars and rivaling the moon. She felt a pain in her eyes as the Crata increased the intensity of its shine, and she realized it was toying with her, drawing out her misery. So there was a natural order to things. She had played with fire, and now would be burned.

Aester writhed, turning so that she was being dragged on her back. Her hands grasped at anything to throw at the Crata, but the clumps of dirt, the raggedy weeds, the dead stag grass, all of it passed harmlessly through the ghost. If it could smile, Aester knew it would be grinning at her.

Her eyes felt like they were bleeding. Its hand on her ankle produced a pain so sharp she could hardly decide if it was real or not. In a final act of desperation, Aester kicked at it with her free leg. She fully expected her leg to pass through it, or be otherwise repulsed by whatever dark magic the Crata had protected itself with. As her leg shot out, she let her head loll back, if only to look at the sky one last time. Goodbye, she thought, hoping that somewhere, Ranna would feel her pass and be at peace. Her leg extended fully, and Aester closed her eyes.

And bolted them open again as her leg connected with something solid. The Crata now glowed red, while the area that her leg had just hit was colored the black of congealed blood. It released its hold on her ankle and without thinking she scrambled back. The Crata remained still, as though it couldn't believe what had just happened. Nor could Aester, but she acted quickly, and pushed herself off the ground. Her ankle throbbed painfully, but it only felt like a sprain. Without looking back, she hobbled forward, quickly despite the acute pain. If she had taken the time to turn, she would have seen that the Crata had disappeared, but the belief that it was still close behind her lent her strength. She needed that strength, as her ankle hadn't been merely sprained, but broken with Crata magic, and if fear hadn't given her urgency, she probably wouldn't have been able to crest the final hill of Farmer Jerith's lands, and at last look upon Fort Calys.

Finally, Aester let herself breathe, really, truly breathe. She sucked air in large, thankful gulps, and expelled them just as gratefully. Her breath condescended in the cold, forming a small cloud around her face, which she waved away so that she could look at Fort Calys more. It seemed impossible that she was looking at it, after everything that happened. As much as her aunt hated it, Aester resolved to love Fort Calys from then on, just for being there. She felt like crying---the dance was still going on.

The young woman gathered her skirts to descend the hill. She was limping, and probably wouldn't be able to dance after all, but didn't mind. The wind worried her dress and thick masses of curly hair, but it felt like light teasing, as if it were glad she were alive, too. Aester smiled just to be able to feel pain her ankle, just to hold down the bottom of her dress against the wind, just to be walking to a party late at night. It all seemed over, the excitement. She felt as though she were at the end of some grand chapter in her life, and felt giddy at the prospect of a return to normalcy. Harvesting in the burning swamps would be a treat after this. She reached the bottom of the hill, and turned around to look at where she had just come from. It looked impossibly far off, and she didn't care.

Her smile grew into a full-out grin, and she made her way to the entrance of the fort.

**

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**Author's Note**: Yeah, still calling her Aester here. The whole naming deal will be resolved (in terms of continuity with the actual books, that is) soon. Just not now. xD

Title is from The Chemical Brother's song of the same name. ;3 It is an awesome song! You should check it out!

This was a difficult chapter to write, because I didn't want Aester/Astarael too come across as such a martyr, you know? Basically, I wanted to convey that she's a very practical person. She knows Crata kill people. She knows her siblings have a good chance of survival if she distracts it/offers herself up to it. She's not stupid, obviously she wants her sister and brother to survive! Of course, when she actually realizes that "Hey wow, it looks like I am going to die right about now" she sort of wigs out. Hopefully you guys got the message that, all things considered, Aester/Astarael still cares about numero uno. xD

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! If you read it, _**please **_review! I love constructive criticism. Hit me with your best shot! x3 The next chapter is coming soon.

Until next time,  
Sam ;3


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